Rawhead Redux
by paperbkryter
Summary: As Sam watches over the ailing Dean in Faith, he recalls the first time they encountered a "rawhead" - as teenagers.


Note:

I wrote this fic a long time ago – first or second season I THINK. The original version flipped back and forth between past and present. Eventually I split the "present" parts out and used them to write _Three Strange Days. _I've never been really happy with this, the "past" part, and I could never put my finger on the reason why. So it's been aging in my hard-drive with so many other things that just didn't sit well with me.

Revisiting it now, after the events of the past two seasons in particular, I've realized that the problem was - once again - _timing. _Maybe it's just me, but I believe if I had put it out there (here?) back then, it wouldn't have invoked the bittersweet melancholy it does now. (Well, that's what _I_ felt anyway.)

On a personal note: My parents were raised in rural Kentucky, Appalachia, and when I was little I once heard the two of them comparing notes on how _when_ they were children their caregivers would make sure they came inside before dark. What's kinda creepy, especially looking back at it now, was that they both brought up the same thing, and both of them looked like it STILL scared them. Back then I laughed at them. I mean how could you be scared of something with such a silly name?

_Rawhead and Bloody Bones _

_Steals naughty children from their homes, _

_Takes them to his dirty den, _

_And they are never seen again. _

* * *

Visiting hours had been over for a long time. Sam bribed a nurse to look the other way when he snuck back into Dean's room. She told Security he had special permission to be there. Nobody bothered him. He moved a chair into a corner by the window and sat half hidden behind the bank of machinery beside the bed. Something his father had taught him a long time ago had become second nature: be aware of all the ways into a room, and all the ways out of a room. Sam had a good view of the doorway and he could look out the window into the hospital parking lot to see who came and went.

He suddenly wished he had a weapon, although he wasn't sure why he felt it necessary. Maybe it was just a general feeling of unease, one that had pursued him ever since Jess died. Something was in the air. There was something unpleasant brewing. Sam had no doubt it was the reason why his father had disappeared. Finding out what John Winchester knew about Jess' death and how it connected to the death of Sam's mother wasn't the only motivating factor. The weird feelings he'd been having, the strange nightmares, they were connected too, and Sam suspected John knew something about it.

All of that, however, had to be put on hold. He had another priority at the moment.

By virtue of being on the road together for so long Dean was used to Sam's comings and goings, and usually didn't wake up, but sleeping in a motel and sleeping in a hospital bed were two different things entirely. Dean's bed was tilted up at an angle and nurses would pop in on him every few hours, to check the machines keeping tabs on his heart and inject medication into his IV. The medications that were – supposedly – meant to keep him comfortable. Sam knew his brother was very ill and exhausted, but the constant shuffling of people in and out of his room kept him restless.

When Sam settled down in the chair Dean stirred and opened his eyes. Judging by the frown on his face he wasn't quite sure who had invaded his room this time. He mumbled groggily. Sam felt the need to reply.

"It's just me," he whispered. "Go back to sleep."

"Sammy?"

"Yeah."

"S'time to get up?"

"No. It's two in the morning. Go back to sleep."

Dean sighed. His eyes closed again as he let his head fall back to the pillow. "Dad home?"

"No, Dean. He's...out Hunting."

"Mmm, 'kay." Sighing again, Dean half rolled onto his side. "W'ffles inna mornin'."

Sam leaned back wearily in the chair. "Sure, that sounds good," he whispered.

Dean settled, grew quiet again as he went back to sleep.

"_A couple of weeks, maybe a month. At this point all we can do is try and make him comfortable."_

"Screw that," Sam growled softly. He set the laptop down on the windowsill and turned it on.

Someone out there somewhere had the key to saving Dean's life. Sam didn't just believe it out of some desperate hope. He had faith. If there was evil in the world, there had to be something to balance it out, some sort of good. He believed in a higher power. Miracles happened, didn't they? Sam also had insight, his peculiar insight, and it was telling him it wasn't time for Dean to die. This was a fluke, a stupid accident. His brother was much too young and much too important in the bigger scheme of things to let some overblown bug zapper take him out.

Right?

Sam waited for the computer to warm-up, leaning back in his chair with a hand to his chin, watching Dean sleep. It was unnerving to see him look so pale and tired. There were only a couple of times in Sam's memory that Dean had ever been sick. Once had been when he was five, Dean nine. A nasty case of the Chicken Pox came calling. It was Dean who caught it, and Sam was sent to stay with Pastor Jim for nearly two weeks. One thing Sam recalled with great clarity was how thin and pale Dean had looked when they were finally reunited. Dean blew the whole thing off in his typical fashion, but years later Sam discovered he had become so very ill John had been forced to take him to the hospital.

There were a lot of gaps in Sam's childhood memories. He often had to resort to saying, "I don't remember that!" as he and Dean reminisced. As he'd gotten older he realized much of that had to do with how protected he'd been. His father and brother had sheltered him a great deal, keeping him ignorant of a lot of stuff they knew and the things they were doing for as long as they could. Sam longed to be more of a help to them, but when he was finally admitted into the club, he hadn't wanted to stay there.

This wasn't the first time they'd had a run-in with the creature commonly known as "Raw Head and Bloody Bones." The things were rare thought and becoming rarer. They liked old, abandoned houses and swamps. Some took up residence in the basements of tenement apartments in the poorer areas of cities. Overall, however, their habitat was shrinking. Rurally, it came with the depletion of wetlands. There weren't many places left for them to hide in the urban areas either. Old houses were being torn down or renovated. Government regulations were cracking down on how public housing was maintained. As a result, there weren't many rawheads left.

Sam tapped in his first search upon the laptop's keyboard. He'd start with the more mundane, try to find out more about Dean's condition and what, if any, medical options they might have. Guilt nagged at him as he read through the list of sites Google spat back at him.

Their first encounter with a rawhead had been when Sam and Dean had been kids themselves. Maybe that's why Sam had insisted they take this job, because of events from their past. Maybe they _shouldn't_ have taken the job because of those events. Dean would have laughed at the idea. Kids in trouble were kids in trouble, and it was their responsibility as Hunters to help regardless of the _kind _of trouble. They'd both known it was a rawhead behind the abduction of the Wayne children, and they both knew how vicious the things could be when confronted. Still, Sam blamed himself for Dean's current state. They should have walked away from this one. Sam should have insisted. He should have _known_.

When they'd run into a rawhead for the first time, Dean had gotten hurt, and then, like now, it had been Sam's fault.

* * *

John had expressly forbidden the boys to have any extra curricular activities after school. "You go to school, you come home. Period. Do you understand?"

The reasoning behind this rule was because John absolutely, positively would not allow them outside the house, apartment or hotel room (whichever the family happened to be renting at the time) after sundown. He was not quite so forthcoming about the reason for _that_ rule, although both of them could guess. Once they hit a certain age they didn't have to guess, they _knew_.

There were nasty things lurking outside after dark.

Dean had his curfew lifted when he turned sixteen and John took him on a Hunt for the first time. Sam had been dragged along with them since John would never hear of leaving him home alone. He had to sit locked up in the car wondering what the hell he would do if neither Dean nor his father came back. They did come back, and although he looked scared and white as a sheet, Dean had a glint in his eye that told Sam things were going to change permanently.

It wasn't too often, but John started taking Dean with him on Hunts after that, either leaving Sam in the company of one of his comrades like Caleb or Pastor Jim (_"I'm twelve years old and I have to have a babysitter? That's just wrong, Dad!"_) or locking him in the car while he and Dean did whatever they had to do. Sam found himself smoldering with anger over the whole deal. He felt left out, practically abandoned, and resented being treated like a baby. It seemed like the more freedom Dean got, the less Sam had. They fought more than they ever had before, mostly over stupid stuff. Sam was just sullen and grouchy and ready to blow all the time.

At every opportunity, Sam staged some sort of rebellion. In this particular case he went expressly against John's wishes and joined the soccer team at school. To his credit, he had asked first, but John had said no. In the Winchester household this was akin to throwing gasoline on a bonfire. John said no, so Sam did it anyway.

Like his brother, and due, no doubt, to their father's constant military-type drills, Sam was extremely athletic and strong, far beyond other kids his age. He enjoyed basketball, but because until recently he'd been too short to play effectively, he'd gravitated toward other sports instead. A love of soccer developed, and he and played with the other kids as often as he could, coming to excel at it. Mr. Pepper, who did double duty as history teacher and soccer coach, pursued him relentlessly. Sam fended him off until he realized he had the perfect opportunity to do something that ran contrary to John Winchester's rules. He had known from the start John would say no, and didn't care.

Dean was attending a tech school, some distance away from Sam's school and with a different schedule. He got out a full hour after Sam did. Furthermore, Sam knew Dean was currently playing against the rules himself by having a girlfriend. John didn't necessarily object to that part, but he would have blown a gasket if he knew his son was having sex with said girlfriend on a regular basis. John didn't know about Dean's secret stash of rubbers taped to the back of the toilet tank. Sam did though. He'd found them once when it had been his turn to clean the bathroom.

He also had incriminating video because Dean had been ballsy enough to think he could do the girl in the back seat of his father's car and get away with it. John had been asleep. Sam had been crouched down beside the Chevy pointing a video camera in through one window. It had been dark and the windows had been fogged up so the picture quality was poor, but the sound had come in crystal clear. It was obvious what was being done and who was doing it. All Sam had to do was hand the camera over to John and then sit back and wait for the fireworks.

With time on his side and a back-up blackmail plan, Sam felt confident enough to join the soccer team. His instructions from John were to stay at school, inside the office, until Dean came to pick him up. Dean should have been there promptly. Dean, however, was always at least an hour late, if not more. He was late because he either a) had cut school entirely that day and lost track of the time or b) he'd snuck off after school to spend time with his girlfriend. While Dean got laid, Sam hung out playing cards with the janitors. It was hardly fair.

Sam got away with his soccer subterfuge for weeks, always managing to be at the office waiting when Dean came in to collect him. If Dean ever noticed his little brother was out of breath, or slightly damp from a shower, he never said anything. Sam also managed to participate in the away games with a little help from Dean's girlfriend. John would have been hacked off to find out Dean was having sex with a girl but the girl's father would have completely blown his stack. He was a wealthy and prominent local citizen who made his fortune as a televangelist. The man had strict rules regarding how his daughter was to conduct herself and he _hated _Dean with a passion. Sam showed Elizabeth his tape and threatened to mail a copy to her father if she didn't make damn sure Dean was _really_ late during away games.

Most of the away games were not far afield. Not so the playoff games, and Sam knew that if they won their first, played at home, he'd be in trouble because afterward they'd have to travel. Little did he know, he'd be in trouble anyway.

During that first game, he almost threw their win so they wouldn't have to continue, but he didn't. It wouldn't have been fair to deprive his teammates of a chance at the big prize just because Sam couldn't travel. He was horrified, however, when the game ran long and he ended up scoring the winning point. As he was surrounded by joyous fans and teammates congratulating him on his great play, he found it nearly impossible to escape. He couldn't get free of them but time got away from him entirely.

Sam left the gymnasium nearly _five hours _after school had let out, running on legs weak as water back up to the front of the school. His heart was pounding. His arms burned from having to carry a heavy bag of books back with him. He ran with one hand pressed to his side where a stitch had knotted itself around his ribs and poked him viciously every time he drew a breath.

He was busted for sure. He hadn't thought to ask Elizabeth to run interference for him during this game and he just knew Dean would be there, at the office, waiting to kill him. The last thing Dean ever wanted was to have John mad at him. At this late hour, John would be home from his part-time day job, and when Dean finally dragged Sam in so far after dark, John would be more than just mad, he'd be livid. First he would murder Dean, who he considered responsible, and then he would murder Sam for breaking the rules in the first place.

There was a long hallway that linked the gym to the main building. Sam raced up the long corridor and hit the connecting door hard. He wheezed as he grabbed for the handle. He gave it a yank, expecting it to fly open so he could continue his mad dash through the building to the other side, to the office. He did not expect the door to yank back.

_What the...?_

It was locked.

"Oh, no. No,no,no, oh, _shit_!"

Turning on his heel, Sam raced back down the hall, his sneakers squeaking on the linoleum as he rounded a corner and sprinted for the gym. He'd have to go out and around the front of the building. He'd have to go outside, in the dark. John wouldn't have the opportunity to kill him. Dean was going to rip his head off when he saw Sam running up to the office from _outside_.

"I'm dead. I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead! So majorly dead!"

If Coach Pepper had seen Sam sprint across the school's front lawn, he might have immediately drafted him for the track team, but Coach Pepper was not in sight and neither were any other people. In the distance the last few cars were leaving the gymnasium parking lot. Soon everyone would be gone, including the janitors.

Sam skidded to a stop at the front doors. All the lights were out inside, and sure enough, when he tested the doors, they too were locked. Now he was completely and totally locked out, unable to get to his designated meeting place, stuck out-of-doors, in the dark, and without any means of defending himself should any of the nasty things John warned them about should appear.

Not, Sam told himself, that he thought anything _would_.

He sagged heavily against the doors. Gulping air, he tried to calm himself, think of a game plan, some sort of excuse...

And then frowned as he realized there was something missing.

Where the hell was Dean?

Sam's weary mind immediately jumped to the worst case scenario. Dean had come, waited for a while, and when his little brother hadn't shown up, he'd assumed Sam had gotten himself in trouble. There was no doubt in Sam's mind that at this very moment Dean was anxiously reporting to their father and enlisting his aid in rescuing Sam from whatever had nabbed him.

"Dammit."

Pushing himself up off the doors, Sam hefted his back-pack onto his shoulders. He glanced over at the teacher's parking lot hoping Coach Pepper might be there to give him a ride home, but his bad luck was holding. Even the coach had taken off immediately after the game.

Sam had to make the decision whether he was going to stay here alone waiting for his family to show up and rip him a new one, or walk home by himself. Neither choice was high on the list of acceptable behavior as dictated by John Winchester. If he stayed there was no telling how long it would take before John and Dean arrived. If he walked home at a good pace, he could be there in less than ten minutes and face the music there.

Ultimately the weather convinced him to just go home. It was March, and although the winter chill had slacked off during the daylight hours, it was still cold at night. This night it was not only cold, but drizzling. Sam could see his breath in the air. Looking up he could see the fine, misty rain swirling down in the lights over the parking lot. By the time he got home he'd be soaked through, but at least the walking would keep him from freezing to death.

With a sigh of resignation, Sam took a firmer grip on his bag, and started across the school grounds toward home. Maybe, he thought, if he limped in all cold and wet and pathetic he could garner sympathy and not get in as _much_ trouble. He doubted it though. Dean sometimes could be counted on to melt when struck headlong by the pity party ploy, but John was an iceberg. Pulling doe-eyes and squeezing out a tear or two for John was guaranteed to produce a maritime tragedy of immense proportions. He wouldn't buy it for a minute and like the Titanic, Sam would be sunk.

The further Sam got away from school, the darker it got. The side streets that would take him home were not as well lit as the school grounds. Mature trees stood in almost all the yards. Hedges and tall wooden fences skirted the sidewalk. Because of the rain and the foggy mist it produced, visibility was poor. Everything was quiet too. Sometimes a car would pass, otherwise the streets were still and deserted. It wasn't _that_ late, but the sun had set and the clouds and the cold had driven everyone indoors. The last person Sam passed was an old lady letting her dog out to piddle.

He could count on one hand the times he'd been out alone after dark. In fact, he wasn't even positive he _had_ been out after dark alone before. Dean or John were always there with him. They rarely let him out of their sight to the point Sam often felt suffocated and claustrophobic. He regretted those feelings now, desperately hoping to round a corner and see the long, black shape of John's old Chevy coming down the street. Every little sound made him flinch. Every shadow or flicker of light made his breath quicken.

"Stupid," he muttered to himself as he stomped through a puddle and crossed the intersection of two streets. "You're too old to be afraid of the freakin' dark. Grow up, Sam."

The problem was that unlike most teenage boys, Sam Winchester knew for certain there were nasty things lurking in the dark. Nasty things tended to prey on those who were lost and afraid too. He needed to buck up and get over it.

"What are the odds?" he continued. "That something would come after _me_, of all people?"

Years later he might have been less confident. Nasty things preyed on those who were lost and afraid but they were also drawn to latent psychic abilities like bees to honey. The twenty-three year old Sam realized his father might have known, somehow, that his youngest son was different; hence the elaborate protective measures. The older Sam also had way more close encounters during hunts than his brother did. When something came at them, nine times out of ten it targeted Sam first.

Alone in the dark, young Sam Winchester stood out like a beacon.

Eat at Sam's.

Or, rather...

Eat Sam.

He stopped abruptly on a street corner. Here was yet another decision he had to make. If he stuck to the sidewalks he would have to traverse all around another block to reach their apartment building and safety. The neighborhood wasn't exactly the best either. Dean rarely took Sam through there, and when he did, he took a gun with him. Usually when Dean walked Sam home from school they cut through the park instead. Cutting through the park took a chunk of time off their trip and during daylight hours it was infinitely safer.

From the corner on which Sam now stood the park was the only thing separating him from home. It was a straight shot; past the playground, through the picnic tables, over the wishing well bridge, and down a short section of the bike path. The bike path came out of the park and onto the sidewalk directly across the street from the apartment. The drawback to this route was that past the playground, the lighting was very poor to nonexistent. After nightfall the park was an entirely different place and Sam wasn't sure if the bad neighborhood wouldn't be a better option. At least there would be light.

He stood on the sidewalk dancing back and forth from one foot to the other. It was cold, and getting colder now that the drizzle had soaked through his jacket. He had outgrown his heavier coat over the winter, and until fall, when Dean got a new coat and Sam got his brother's old one, Sam had to make due with a jacket. It wasn't waterproof. Wind cut through it like a knife. He was freezing.

"Screw it."

Breaking into a jog, Sam crossed the street into the park. The wet sand surrounding the play equipment clung stickily to his feet and slowed him down. Emerging from the sand pit he slipped on the wet grass, caught himself on the slide. His difficulties unnerved him. It was almost as if he were being purposely delayed. Was there something behind him, trying to catch up? Or was the danger ahead in the dark grove of trees? Should he heed the warnings?

He stopped to catch his breath at the first of a row of picnic tables. Where he stood was like last of a string of islands, or a row of stepping stones. Above his head a security lamp set high upon a utility pole, shown down on the area, bathing it in watery, yellow light. Beyond this last bastion of safety lay a dangerous drop off into an ocean of darkness. At its center was a black hole, from which a pale tongue protruded. It was down this gravel path and into a dark tunnel of trees that Sam had to go to get home. His course would then take him down a hill, over a wooden footbridge, and finally to the end of the path where a row of three steps would lead him up out of the park and onto the street again.

It wouldn't even take five minutes.

Sam checked his backpack, making sure both arms were looped through the straps and it was secure between his shoulders. He'd need both hands if he were to defend himself properly. He looked around, making sure no one was following him, sucked in a deep breath, and took the plunge, setting out from his island of light at a quick pace.

Almost immediately the darkness closed in around him. The trees became strangely shaped shadows – black and gnarled like bony witches waiting to pounce. They curved clawed fingers over his head, and even though still bare of foliage, the canopy had grown so thick and tangled Sam could barely see through the twisted branches. Not, he realized, that he could see much anyway. Clouds obscured the stars. Cold rain stung his eyes whenever he dared risk a glance upward. He had to keep his eyes on the path before him.

A snippet of a tune from the _Wizard of Oz _popped into his head. It wasn't comforting. As a small child Sam had been terrified of the flying monkeys, a situation compounded by an older brother with a wicked sense of humor. At one point there had been a prank which resulted in Sam screaming bloody murder at two in the morning and Dean very nearly being shot when John burst into their room packing both a shotgun and a .44 Magnum.

The movie was promptly banned from that point onward.

Sam flinched at the sound of the wind rustling through the trees, imagining the leathery wings of demonic monkeys rubbing together as the creatures settled in the treetops like foul, furry vultures. They were just waiting to make their move. The hair on the back of his neck rose. He could almost feel their claws.

_Don't look up. Don't look up. Don't..._

"Whoa!"

A tree root had pushed up beneath the path, not enough to break completely free of the surface, but enough to catch a sneakered toe unawares. Sam's momentum came to an abrupt halt as he fell on his hands and knees. Had he not had the burden of all his school books on his back he might have caught himself. His balance was off. He hit the ground hard. Gravel bit into his palms. He could feel his knees burning.

Dean might really get into the military survival training their father had force-fed them since they were practically babies, he might get John's praise for being good at it, but Sam was no slouch either. Within seconds of falling he was up again, taking quick measure of any injuries he might have suffered and preparing to move onward. He knew he was close to the little stream that marked the halfway point across the park. Once he crossed the bridge he was home free. There was no time for dawdling now.

He took only a few steps onto the wooden bridge, his footfalls cutting the silence almost as loud as gunshots, before he abruptly came to a complete stop. He stood frozen in place, caught in a precarious position a third of the way across the bridge. To either side there was a drop of a good four feet into freezing cold water. This time of year the little trickling stream was overflowing from snow melt. The rain wasn't helping matters. The stream rushed along like miniature river, a white water river. If Sam went in he could get seriously hurt. Of course, if he stayed where he was...

A dark figure stood at the other end of the bridge, the sight of which had caused Sam to put on the brakes. It had come up fast from the opposite direction and now stood blocking his way. All he could see was a bulky, black, man-shape with only a pale oval of face visible around shadowy eyes. The man-shape had been running from something. That couldn't be good. Or perhaps he'd been running toward something – Sam.

Sam lowered his voice, forcing the tremor out of it as he bellowed. "I have a gun! You better move outta my way!"

The man lifted his chin from within the collar of the sweatshirt he wore beneath a hoodie he had pulled up around his head. "A gun?" he asked. "Since when?" Heavy boots clumped on the wooden bridge as he started across. "Sammy, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Dean?" Sam sagged against the bridge railing. "Man, I'm glad to see you."

Dean grinned. "Scared?"

"No."

"Yeah, right. I saw the look on your face when you thought I was the boogey man." Stopping just a few steps onto the bridge, Dean waved a hand impatiently. "Come on. If we're lucky Dad won't be home yet."

"If we're..." Sam hesitated.

No. If _Dean _were lucky John wouldn't be home yet. With a quick flash of insight, Sam realized that Dean never had made it to the school. He didn't know Sam had been late, because he had been way overdue himself.

"Yes!" Grinning, Sam continued his way across the bridge to where his brother stood waiting.

"Hurry up, Sammy. I'm frikken freezing."

"I'm coming, I'm come..." A flicker of motion, a reflexive glance sideways, and Sam's sense of relief shattered. "DEAN!"

The monster had pulled itself up over the side of the bridge and now thrust it's leprous face right into Sam's. It was big, covered in tattered rags and tangled, filthy hair, stinking of mildew and decay. The stench alone was overwhelming. Sam couldn't run. He didn't have time to even flinch. The thing was impossibly fast for something so large, and it had come up on them in complete and utter silence.

"SAM!"

He heard Dean running across the bridge toward him, but Sam knew it was too late, his brother would never get to him in time. A clawed hand wrapped itself around his right bicep in an iron grip and gave a sharp yank, pulling him off of his feet. His body spun around, his free arm flailing in the air as he was jerked down toward the edge of the bridge by his captor. For a split second he was airborne and he braced himself in anticipation of the cold water below. A heartbeat later he knew he shouldn't have bothered. His body's angle was skewed. He wasn't going to go over the side cleanly.

Pain exploded through his skull as Sam's head connected with the top of the railing. He thought he saw a bright bolt of lightning pierce the darkness. He heard someone or something scream.

And then everything went black.

* * *

He heard a voice calling his name. It came out of the dark. He thought he should recognize it, but at first he didn't.

"Sam? Sammy, are you okay?"

_No,_ Sam thought grouchily. _I'm not okay. I'm cold and wet and I hurt all over. _

He moaned a little. The voice grew alarmed.

"Sam! Sammy?"

"What?" Sam mumbled.

"Dammit, answer me when I talk to you!"

The voice was a breathy but fierce whisper. Sam identified it finally as his brother's voice. At least he wasn't alone here, wherever here might be.

A swamp?

Sam was lying in a puddle, a noxious puddle that stunk like sewage. As he pushed himself up his hands met with a hard, smooth surface. It was concrete, not mud or vegetation, and although the air was very cold, it didn't smell like outside. Aside from the sewage smell there was the overpowering stench of mildew running rampant. He also smelled blood.

Cautiously he felt the back of his head. There was only a goose egg and a small cut on his scalp. It wasn't his own blood he smelled.

"Dean?" he whispered nervously.

"Yeah?"

"You okay?" The hesitation scared him. "Dean?"

"Yeah. My ribs are bruised all to hell but I think I'm okay."

Sam groped around in the darkness, splashing through the water until his hands fell on something lumpy. It was a boot. He hoped it was attached to his brother's foot and not something really horrible. Holding onto the pant leg, he followed it up until a hand came out of the darkness and grabbed him by the collar. Instinctively he yelped in surprise, striking out blindly at his captor.

"It's just me," Dean hissed. "Knock it off." He chuckled softly. "Trying to feel me up? Perv."

"Shut up." Sam felt around and discovered Dean was sitting up against a cement block wall. The water wasn't as deep close to the wall, only about two inches compared to the four to six further out in the unseen room. Sam shuddered. He was lucky he hadn't drowned while he'd been unconscious. "A basement?"

"Maybe. I've got a lighter in my back pocket. Hurts to reach around. Can you...?"

"What do you have a lighter for? Man, have you been smoking again?"

There was an unmistakable sheepish tone to Dean's voice when he answered. "No. I just have it...for Hunting."

"Liar."

Dean huffed. "You tell Dad, Sammy and I'll wring your neck."

"Hello? What part of abducted and locked in a wet basement don't you get? Ow!" Sam sat back as Dean punched him in the arm. Water splashed. Sam almost dropped the lighter. "Jerk."

"Brat."

Sam's hands were numb with cold. It took him several tries before he could coax the lighter to life. The tiny flame produced very little light. It did not part the darkness very far, but remained in a six inch radius around the flame, around Sam's hand. All he could confirm before the lighter became too hot for him to hold alight, was that they were indeed in some sort of large cement room with water flooding the floor.

A second flick of the lighter revealed Dean's face hovering next to him in the dark. His brother looked more than a little worse for wear. A massive bruise gave him a black eye. The eye itself was swollen shut and there was blood on his cheek and at his mouth where his lips had been split open. Beneath the bruises and the blood his skin was deathly white. Sam hissed as the light went out. He'd burned his thumb.

"Are you sure you're okay? Your face is a mess," Sam whispered.

"Yeah, but I'm freezing. Go out there and see if you can't find a blanket or a tarp or something, or just some dry floor."

"Me?" Sam squeaked. He squinted out into the dark. "What if it's out there?"

"Considering it hasn't killed us yet, it's still out there somewhere."

"Dean!"

"But if it were here _now,_ you'd probably smell it," Dean continued casually.

Sam pressed himself back against the wall. "Why can't you go?"

"You have the lighter."

"Yeah, but it's _your_ lighter." Sam protested. "Why do I have to go out there?"

"Chicken?"

Sam pouted. "No."

"Yeah, right. You still sleep with a night light."

"Shut up, I do not."

"Do too."

"So what if I do. You still have Buddy."

There was a long silence before Dean growled, "I do not."

"Do too. It's in your dresser drawer, I saw it." Sam flicked the lighter and found Dean giving him the evil eye, but there was a little bit of embarrassment behind the glare. "I'm gonna tell Elizabeth all about Deanie's widdle teddy bear."

"Sam," Dean said softly, icily. "You want to die, don't you?"

"And I'm gonna tell Dad about Elizabeth, _and _the cigarettes."

"You open your big mouth about any of that and I'll tell Dad about the soccer team."

Sam's big mouth abruptly snapped shut. He could feel the smugness radiating off of his brother in the dark. "You know about that?"

"Dumbass, of course I do. You think Elizabeth didn't tell me about how you blackmailed her?" Dean snorted. "I've even been to a couple of games."

"You have?"

"Yes."

So, Sam thought, it hadn't been luck that had kept him out of trouble all season. Dean had been covering for him. Not only that, but his brother had actually been interested enough to come see him play.

A weird kind of balloony feeling rose up in his chest. It kinda made him want to cry, or laugh, or give Dean a hug – or even all three. He settled with sniffling a little because outright crying would be a point for mockery and if he hugged his brother, Dean would probably punch him again.

"How come you didn't tell Dad?" he asked.

"I dunno. Saving it up I guess." Dean's voice lowered. "In case you decided to tell on me about Elizabeth." There was a pause. "You're pretty good, Sammy." he added quietly.

"Thanks."

An awkward silence followed.

"For the record," Dean said after a minute or two. "Buddy is not a teddy bear." He mumbled the last bit. "He's a tiger." Menacingly, he added, "And if you _ever_ say _anything_ to any_body_ about Buddy I'll take out a full page ad in the paper telling the _world_ that you wet the bed until you were nine."

Sam frowned. He considered that a death threat. "All right, all right. I'm going."

Pushing himself to his feet, Sam flicked the lighter. It shed very little light, and he couldn't hold it on for long before it got too hot, but it was enough so that he could gingerly make his way around the circumference of the room using the wall to guide him.

It was cold and wet in their prison, probably not much warmer than it had been outside. Sam shivered as he sloshed through the water. The concrete wall was cold beneath his fingers, and in some places, decidedly slimy. He did not turn his small light to see what covered the walls. He really didn't want to know.

The floor beneath his sneakers was cracked and uneven. In some places the water was shallow, no more than a couple of inches. In other places the floor dipped down so that the water covering it came up past Sam's ankles halfway up his shins. The floor too was slippery. Sam had to be very careful with each step so he wouldn't fall into the fetid water. It stunk. It stunk of toilet water mostly, but there were underlying smells Sam didn't like to think about, such as the blood he'd caught a whiff of earlier, and the unmistakable scent of decay. Sam knew that smell. His father often came home with the scent clinging to his clothing. After he started hunting with their father, Dean came home smelling like rot sometimes too. It was, he told Sam, from digging up graves.

"It's a rat, or a raccoon or something..." Sam muttered to himself. "That's all it is."

The thought of that didn't make him feel any better. If a rat or other creature had crawled into the basement and found itself trapped until it died, what hope did they have?

Sam shuddered, and then stopped as his foot made contact with something under the water. It was hard, but it rolled away when he hit it. Bending down, he groped around in the water for the object but could not locate it again. He wiped his hand on his jeans and kept going.

Suddenly he could go no further. Something was blocking his progress. He'd hit something hard again with his foot, and he could sense what he thought might be a pile of rubble blocking his way. It was piled up against the wall in what he guessed was one corner. Sam made his way toward it cautiously and reached out a hand. He felt something smooth and round beneath his hand. Rocks? The smell of decay was particularly strong too. Had part of the basement wall collapsed, falling on some poor animal?

He flicked the lighter so he could see.

And instantly recoiled.

"Whoa!"

Sam's start made him lose his footing. His feet slipped out from under him and he fell with a splash into the water. His feet slammed into the pile of "stones" and they trembled beneath the blow. Sam yelled as he warded off those that fell on and around him.

"Sam!" He heard a splash, followed by a gasp of pain. Dean's second shout came out barely audible. "Sam!"

Sam was too busy to answer. He scuttled around on the floor, trying to get purchase. Something hit him in the shoulder and forced him down. He saw stars as his already wounded skull hit the floor. Water flowed into his mouth. He came up sputtering and coughing. Frantically he pushed at what had fallen on him. His fingers tangled in something soft and wet like spaghetti. His thumb punched through some gooey surface and immediately the smell of rotting flesh overwhelmed him.

He let out a scream, flung whatever it was (although he now had his suspicions) away from him, and half crawled, half swam back toward his brother's voice. How he managed to find Dean again in the utter darkness was a minor miracle, but within seconds he was slumped heavily against Dean's shoulder, clinging tightly to the damp cotton of his brother's sleeve.

"What the hell? What happened?" Dean demanded. Sam felt cold fingers upon his face. "Sammy? You okay?"

"We're in trouble," Sam gasped. "We're in so much trouble." Even he could hear the slightly hysterical note in his voice. "It's gonna kill us."

"Was it out there?"

"No."

Dean shoved him away. "Then why are you freakin' out?"

"Bones," Sam managed. "Skulls. Piles and piles of them, and one was fresh." He wiped his hands on his pants, shuddering. "It's killing people and chopping off their heads! Maaan..."

"No," Dean whispered after a second. "It's killing _kids_. Holy crap!" He grabbed Sam's shirt. "You remember that kid that went missing a few months ago? Hannah something..."

"Hannah Becker. I know her sister." Wincing, Sam moaned. "Oh, geeze, you think that was Hannah?" He clutched at his stomach. "I'm gonna be sick."

"No, you're not 'cause I'll smack you one. Listen Sammy, Dad saw the story about Hannah and said something about checking it out. I think he suspected...oh, whoa! Hang on, I think I know what it is!"

Sam was definitely not comforted by this revelation. If their father suspected something supernatural, then it couldn't be good. "What is it?"

"A rawhead. You know. Raw Head and Bloody Bones?"

"But..." Sam frowned. "I thought they only went after _little_ kids. I mean, Hannah was in first grade. I'm a little bigger than a first grader."

"Actually, that kinda explains why it went after you." Dean chuckled as Sam punched him in the shoulder. "No, seriously. Ever since that girl disappeared people have been on high alert, keeping their kids out of snatching range, so it's prolly gettin' desperate. It's hungry and taking any opportunity it gets. It grabbed you because you were doin' something stupid."

"Hey! I was just goin' home because you didn't show up when you were supposed to!"

"Dork. Why do you think I was late? I knew you had playoffs."

"You were still late," Sam retorted.

"So. You shoulda stayed at school."

"I got locked out and it was cold!"

"Not my fault."

"Tell that to Dad."

"You better not, Sam." Dean warned.

Sam pouted and gave up on his defense. "Well it doesn't matter anyway 'cause that thing is going to come back and eat us." He flopped back against the wall with a huff and a splash. "BBQ Winchester. Man, this sucks."

Dean gave him a nudge with his elbow. "Look on the bright side, Sammy. We'll probably freeze to death before then."

"Very funny." Sam sighed. After a moment he said, "This must not be a basement then. If it was the basement of an old house or something, someone would have found it out by now. There were hundreds of bones there."

"I think it's part of the old sewage treatment plant. There are tunnels under the park leading to where the creek used to be. It must be using the tunnels to get around and snatch its dinner."

"Wouldn't someone notice all these kids going missing?"

"Maybe not. You know what kinda neighborhoods are around here. Maybe some people don't want the cops in their business. Plus it took us, and we're older. It's probably had to nab older kids before. They might think a teenager just ran away from home." Dean's voice lowered to a whisper. "If it's learned to live in the city without getting caught – that's not good. Dad needs to know about this."

"No kidding," Sam snorted, feeling around for a dry spot on his shirt. He'd managed to retain the lighter, but it was wet, and did not want to work. He did his best to dry it off. "Dad needs to come rescue us." A thought occurred to him. "Dean?"

"What?"

"What if we don't freeze, and Dad doesn't find us? That thing laid us both out. It's way stronger..."

"Don't think about that, Sammy."

"But..."

"Just don't," Dean said quickly, and then added. "I'll do something."

"What?" Giving up on the lighter, Sam inched a little closer to Dean until their shoulders were touching. He could feel his brother shivering. At least he had a coat, all Dean had was a hoodie and a sweatshirt, and both were probably soaked through. Sam snuggled in closer. "What are you gonna do?"

"I don't know yet, but I won't let nuthin' eat you. I promise. Okay?"

Sam knew Dean always followed up on promises, but in this case, he wasn't sure his wounded brother was going to be able to pull it off - and that scared him more than the rawhead itself.

* * *

A splash and a rattle came out of the darkness, making Sam flinch. Every muscle in his body tightened as he strained to listen for whatever it was that had made the noise. He couldn't identify it, nor the direction from which it had come. With a shudder he hunkered down further into the corner formed by the wall and his brother's body.

"I'm scared," he whispered, not ashamed to admit it. "Officially."

"See, I knew you were afraid of the dark," Dean whispered back. He elbowed Sam a little bit in the side. "Chicken."

"I'm only afraid of the dark when there's a monster out there in it with me on its dinner menu."

"I told you, I'm not gonna let anything eat you for breakfast, lunch _or_ dinner."

Sam snorted. "And how are you gonna do that half frozen and all banged up, Dean? Time to face reality, we're toast."

"You're toast," Dean mumbled. "I'm not on the menu. It snatched you, not me."

"Then why are you here?"

"Cause I pissed it off when I tried to save your ass."

"So like it's _not_ going to chow down on you after it has me as an appetizer? Right." Sam pushed himself up the wall and stood up. As he stood he noticed he could now see shadows in the darkness. A glance to his right revealed the mass of bones back in the corner. A glance to his left revealed a pile of tattered cloth rags mildewing in the other corner. "It's gotten lighter in here."

"Must be morning."

Sam glanced back at him, startled. He hadn't realized so much time had passed. Had either of them slept? He thought he might have. There was a vague memory of waking up with his head on Dean's shoulder, but for how long he'd been out he couldn't tell. It _was_ getting lighter though. Sam could now see Dean's dark outline against the gray wall. He was sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest and his hands folded in his lap in an effort to conserve body heat, but he was still shivering. Daylight hadn't brought with it much warmth, nor dried them out any.

"Yeah," Sam muttered, resuming his examination of their prison now that he could see it. "But where is the light coming from? It could be a way out."

Sloshing through the water, Sam made his way slowly toward the center of the room. He could just barely see the outline of a door on the opposite wall. The third corner of the room was empty, and for a good reason; there the floor sloped sharply and there was no way of telling how far down it went. Water had gathered there in a deep, dark pool. It was still and stagnant, and Sam could make out the pale, blobby shapes of some unspeakable flotsam floating on top.

There was machinery of some sort in the fourth corner - pumps that had years ago stopped working.

"There's a door over here." Sam went to it and gave it a close examination. He tugged at the latch. "But it's locked, and all rusty. I don't think we're getting out that way."

There was a splashing sound as Dean got to his feet and moved toward Sam. They met in the middle. Dean's teeth were chattering and he held a hand to his side as the two of them looked up toward the low ceiling at a small circle of light just above them. A long concrete pipe lead up from the room, and at the top was a metal grid half covered in tangled vegetation. Beyond the grid was daylight.

A rusty ladder was secured to the side of the concrete pipe, but the bottommost rung was well over their heads. The boys looked at each other.

"You're the athlete," Dean said quietly.

"Yeah right, like Superman - not."

It was unlikely either of them could jump high enough to reach the pipe, let alone the first rung of the ladder.

"I could climb on your shoulders," Sam suggested.

With a sigh, Dean shook his head. "Sammy, I can hardly hold myself up with this stitch in my side."

"You could climb on my shoulders."

Dean eyed him skeptically. "Sure. As if I don't need a broken neck on top of everything else. We both know you've got zero upper body strength." He looked around. "See if you can't find something to stand on, or something we can use like a rope."

Giving Sam a little shove, Dean set him off in one direction while he explored another. Sam was grateful not to have gotten the two scary corners – the one with the pool and the other with the stack of bones. Instead he made a careful exploration of the old pumping machinery, finding nothing of use, before heading toward the rags in the other corner. Those could possibly be useful if there were some that weren't completely rotted. They could braid them into some sort of rope maybe.

He made his way toward the pile, listening to Dean mutter curses from the other side of the room. The closer he got to his destination the more uneasy he felt. He was able to get within two feet of the pile of tattered cloth before he stopped in his tracks.

"Dean..."

It came out a breathy squeak.

What he had thought was a pile of dirty rags _was_, to a certain extent, a pile of dirty rags. They lay upon a soggy mat of dead leaves and flattened cardboard boxes. It wasn't until Sam got right on top of them that he could see they were moving. They were moving rhythmically up and down as if they were breathing.

It wasn't the rags that were breathing, but rather, what they were attached to – a huge, hairy, man-like thing lying there asleep in the corner. Sam recognized the scabby skin and oozing sores from the twisted face he'd seen back at the bridge. He recognized the smell too, which blended in with the overall stench of the room. They weren't alone. They might have never been alone either, and that thought sent a shudder through Sam's body. There was a good possibility they had spent the night with the rawhead there the whole time.

Sam slowly began backing up. "Duh—Dean..."

A pair of huge, round eyes opened.

"DEAN!"

The pile of rags exploded outward.

It rose up out of the shadowy corner and came at Sam with its mouth open in an inarticulate roar, its massive hands curled into grabbing claws. Sam backpedaled as quickly as he could, stumbling through the water with his arms flailing. The rawhead towered over him. It was brawny and huge, at least eight feet tall, but it was fast, very fast. Adrenaline kept Sam just out of range of its grasp. In sheer panic he ducked and twisted as it made its first attempt to catch him. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if it got its hands on him it would rip his head off.

A hand did fall on him when he was half way across the room, but it wasn't the rawhead. A strong, human hand wrapped itself around his wrist and gave him a massive yank, spinning him away from his attacker. Sam heard Dean yell a curse. He heard the "whoosh" as some long thin object hissed through the air, and a sharp cry as the weapon connected. The rawhead roared in fury. It changed its objective, going after Dean instead of Sam.

Sam had other issues to attend to, as his momentum carried him away from the danger of the rawhead into another. His spin sent him reeling, made him lose his footing on the wet, slippery concrete. He fell with a splash, but instead of hitting something solid, the ground suddenly gave way beneath him. This was no few inches of water - he had gone under completely. Only at the last minute did he realize shouting would be a bad idea, but water still got into his mouth, choking him.

For a moment he couldn't find up, didn't know his orientation in the black, brackish water. The surface eluded him until he flung up a hand and broke through. He came up sputtering and coughing. Instinctively he made for the edge of the horrid pool he'd fallen into but stopped short as he heard his brother's shouted command.

"Sam! Stay there!"

"What?" Sam shrieked.

Yards away Dean still battled the rawhead. His only weapon was a pipe he'd found, and he wielded it like a baseball bat. Every time the rawhead made a lunge at him he hit it as hard as he could, but Sam could tell he was faltering, and with every strike the rawhead was gaining yardage. Dean was backing slowly toward the pool himself.

"Stay there!" Dean repeated.

Sam tread water, trying desperately not to think about what might be lurking in the depths below him, or how deep those depths might be, or where the scummy pool had come from in the first place. He coughed. The stench of the water made his eyes tear and his nose run. He could barely see.

He could hear though, and he heard Dean shout seconds before a horrible roar of fury and pain filled the room. Raising his head as far as he could above the water, Sam watched as the rawhead staggered, its huge hands rising to its face. A second later it was roaring again, definitely in pain, and Sam yelled a warning when he saw its body twist around.

It might have been wounded, but it was still fast. One trunk-like arm lashed out and caught Dean a sideswiping blow to the chest that knocked him off his feet. Eerily, Dean didn't make a sound, not one peep, as he was flung to the ground. Sam heard only the splash as his brother's body fell onto the flooded floor and did not move.

"Dean!"

Sam's voice was barely audible over the cries of the rawhead. It staggered over to the pool and stopped just before the floor dropped off into the deeper water. Something dark and glistening ran down its scab covered face as it opened its mouth and howled in frustration. Sam retreated as far as he could, swimming backward toward the center of the pool where he would be out of reach. The monster did not follow. Instead it began pacing back and forth along the edge of the pool. Its loud roaring had subsided to low growls as it hovered over Sam like a hulking, malevolent vulture.

It wasn't fear that made Sam's teeth chatter, but cold. The frigid water wasn't helping a body already weakened from spending a bitterly cold night in wet clothing. He silently prayed for the rawhead to leave. He didn't know how much longer he could tread water.

"Puh-lease..." he whispered. "Guh...guh...go aw...way."

Abruptly the thing stopped its pacing. It froze in place, cocking its head as it heard a sound from elsewhere in the room. Sam heard only his own splashing.

A shout cut through the silence. The rawhead's garbled roar mingled with a voice. The shout came from Dean, who, like a rushing linebacker, had risen up from the floor to tackle the thing from behind. He hit it hard, with all his weight behind him. Both staggered, both fell toward the pool as the rawhead lost its balance. The trajectory of the fall would bring them both down right on top of Sam.

Sam sucked in a deep breath and dove down and sideways into the pitch black water. He heard the splash as the monster hit the water and felt its body fall through the murk nearby. Water swirled, bubbles erupted all around him. The rawhead was moving, thrashing, trying to save itself as its massive body began to sink like a stone to the bottom of the pool. Sam flinched away from rough fingers clutching madly at his feet. He kicked out, struck bone, kicked again toward the surface. He broke through with a cry.

Only a second was he free. He barely had time to suck in a breath before something grabbed the collar of his coat and yanked him back under. A face floated close to his own. Threads of patchy hair swirled around the scaly skin of the rawhead's scalp. Its gaping maw opened in a silent scream. From their grip on Sam's jacket its hands moved to his shoulders, and he was pushed further and further down into the water by the monster's heavy weight. It was trying to climb up Sam's body to the surface, to save itself.

Sam struggled desperately to get free. He punched the misshapen nose, curled his fingers and clawed at its eyes. It twisted around with him, fighting back, holding on to Sam as if he were some sort of rescue device. It was no use. Sam was sinking too, and when one of his sneakers brushed up against something solid, he realized it had dragged him down to the bottom. Sam fought harder. He was running out of air.

A hand caught him around the wrist, while another pulled at the zipper of his jacket. Through the water he heard a muffled shout and he realized Dean was there with him, urging him to get out of the jacket. The rawhead had a double fisted grip in the cloth. Its struggles were growing more feeble as it attempted to push Dean away. The brothers worked in tandem, unzipping Sam's coat so he could squirm free. A huge hand came at him to prevent his escape but Dean was there between prey and predator, attacking the rawhead with a blow from one sharp elbow. Sam kicked off against the slippery concrete bottom and shot toward the air again.

"Dean!" Splashing through the water, Sam turned around and around, looking for his brother to surface. "Dean!"

A surge of water erupted near him. A dark head appeared nearby.

"Hurry!" Dean gasped. "Get out!"

Together they swam the short distance toward the edge of the drop-off. Behind them the water churned and boiled, massive air bubbles broke the surface and sent waves splashing out in all directions. Sam started to look back but got smacked between the shoulder blades with the flat of a hand.

"Don't look. Go!"

Obediently Sam kept swimming until he felt the crumbling edge of the concrete floor beneath his hands. Exhausted, out of breath, and freezing cold, he hoisted himself out into the shallows and rolled over onto his back.

"Sam..."

Dean's voice was barely audible. Sam sat up and reached for him, giving him a hand up out of the deeper water. They leaned heavily against each other, both panting and shivering. Their wet clothes clung to their bodies, weighing down exhausted limbs and chilling them to the bone. After a moment Dean coughed and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Neither one of them moved.

Sam managed to find his voice first. "But...I thought," he panted. "That rawheads _like_ water."

"They like the damp," Dean corrected softly. "But they can't swim."

"Lucky for us."

"Maybe not." Turning his head, Dean nodded back toward the center of the room. "We're still stuck down here." Sam could just barely make out his brother's pale face in the dark, but he could see the worry line appear between Dean's brows, and how badly he was shaking. "Man, I'm cold!"

Sam was cold too, and it was daylight beyond their prison. Once night fell, if the temperatures dropped as low as they had the night before, they were goners.

"What are we gonna do?" he whispered. "I don't wanna die down here."

"Nobody is gonna die."

"But you just..."

Dean's voice was almost unnervingly calm and quiet. "Sammy, nobody is gonna die."

Sam didn't answer right away. He sat very still, listening to Dean breathing. It didn't sound good. It sounded – sticky – and shallow, with a wheeze upon the _inhaled _breath as if it were difficult for him to draw air into his lungs. Pneumonia? Could someone get pneumonia that quickly?

"Are you okay?" Sam whispered.

"No," Dean's tone shifted. It dripped sarcasm. "I'm locked in a stinky, wet basement with my dorky little brother." With a great deal of effort, he got to his feet. Sam followed suit. "Come on, let's keep looking around. There's got to be something we can use, and moving around will keep us warm." He paused as Sam fell in behind him. "Dad'll come, Sammy. Don't worry."

Sam wished he had as much faith. He could remember too many times when John had not been there, despite all of Dean's reassurances.

* * *

It was cold, and wet. Both of them were hungry and desperately thirsty, but they didn't dare drink any of the water that surrounded them. Their search for something – anything - to help them escape had yielded no results, nor had shouting for help. By the time they finally admitted defeat they were no drier or warmer than before.

Minutes stretched to hours. They dozed fitfully, exhausted from their battle with the rawhead, but too cold to get comfortable. Dean's cough had worsened considerably. Sam couldn't stop shivering. The driest location in the entire room was the pile of dirty rags and cardboard where the rawhead had been sleeping. It was there they sought refuge – despite the horrible stench.

The smell started a game Dean dubbed, "What Smells Worse?" They went back and forth with suggestions until it was universally determined that decomposing flesh was the worst smell in the world. That they were surrounded by it only helped cement this opinion and sobered them enough to give up on the game entirely.

"We've got to get out of here." Dean said hoarsely. He slowly got to his feet and made his way over to the opening in the ceiling. "It's getting darker."

Sam heard him cough and noted that they could now see their breath. His teeth chattered. "H...huh..how?"

"You're gonna have to climb on my shoulders."

"But you said..."

"I know what I said!"

"Well you don't have to get nasty about it!" Sam growled. He unfolded himself and joined Dean in the center of the room rather reluctantly. As gross as the rawhead's nest was, he had dried off slightly and wasn't anxious to get his feet wet any more than they were already. "I was just sayin'."

Dean coughed, and spit. "I feel like crap and you're whining."

"I wasn't whining!"

"You are now."

"Whatever." Sam poked him in the shoulder. "Here, give me a leg up then." He paused, squinting at his brother's pale face. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"You want to die?" Dean rasped. "Huh?"

Sam pouted. "No."

"Then shut-up and stick your foot up here."

"Like to stick my foot up your ass." Sam mumbled under his breath. It wasn't his fault Dean got hurt and was now grouchy.

Well, okay, maybe it was, but...

Dean apparently was not hurt enough to have his hearing affected. He smacked Sam in the side of the head before lacing his fingers together to make a step. "Don't be a jerk."

"It's better than being a dick."

"You want smacked again?"

"You better not."

"Sam!"

During his lifetime Sam reckoned he spent more hours with Dean than he did his father on any given day. They knew each other very well as a result, and Sam knew just when he'd pushed his brother from "brother" mode into "parent" mode. Generally Dean was pretty laid back regarding just about everything, but there were times when he put his foot down. When he did, Sam was expected to behave himself, and usually, he did.

Obediently he put _his_ foot into Dean's hands and braced himself on his brother's shoulders. "On the count of three," he said.

"You're going to have to move fast. I won't be able to hold you for long."

Sam squinted up toward the pipe. Even standing on Dean's shoulders it was going to be a close shave. He'd really have to stretch to get his hands around the first rung of the ladder. Knowing he'd only have one chance, he stopped and wiped his hands on his jeans. If he slipped it would be all over for them. Judging by the way Dean was wheezing, there couldn't be a second try.

"Okay, ready."

"One," Dean said.

Sam bounced a little bit. "Two..."

"Three!"

Rising into the air, Sam fought to keep his precarious balance. Dean had clenched his jaws over a cry of pain and took one stumbling step before regaining his position and his grip on Sam's calves. Sam knelt on his brother's shoulders for maybe a few seconds before putting his hands on top of Dean's head and rising to a stand. Dean wobbled beneath him. Sam reached for the ladder.

For one heart-stopping moment Sam thought he was going to pitch forward and fall head first onto the concrete floor. He could feel his body tipping. Dean's fingers dug into his legs as their tower started to sway. Sam quickly rose to his tiptoes and stretched, grabbing blindly for the ladder. His first grab missed. Rough, rusted metal scratched at his fingertips. He heard his brother moan.

"Sam..."

Sam lunged upward. He felt his feet leave Dean's shoulders. He didn't know if it was because he'd actually become airborne or if Dean had collapsed beneath him. Regardless, his hands closed around the ladder. He kicked his dangling feet.

"Dean! Push!"

Hands grabbed at his sneakers. They were both yelling as Sam inched upward enough to grab another rung. He hung on in sheer teeth-grinding determination, knowing this was their only chance. He also knew that if he lost his grip he'd surely injure himself and possibly Dean as well, considering Dean would most definitely be bone-headed enough to try to catch Sam's fall.

Three rungs up and Dean could no longer touch his feet. His arms burned. Sweat ran down his forehead. He kicked and pulled and dragged himself up rung by rung until he could get his feet onto the ladder. Hooking an arm around one rung, Sam stopped to catch his breath. He peered down the pipe. Below him was only darkness. "I'm up," he called. Glancing upward he could see the grate several feet above his head. The light had changed as the sun moved away from its apex. It was nearly dusk and it was definitely getting colder. "Dean?"

There was no reply.

"Dean!"

He heard a cough. Straining his ears he could also hear his name in a hoarse whispering voice. It got him moving. Something was wrong. They had to get out of there. Dean was hurt

"I'm going to go get help!"

Hand over hand Sam pulled himself up the ladder. It squeaked and groaned beneath his weight, but the rusty bolts remained securely fastened to the concrete pipe wall. He scrambled up to the top and pushed at the grilled cover. When it didn't budge, he pushed it again, and a third attempt had him shaking at it. Dirt and rust sifted down over him like ruddy snowflakes.

"Hey!" Sam poked his fingers out through the grill openings. "Is anybody up there? Can you hear me? Hey! Help!"

Despair clawed at his heart. Pressing his cheek up to the grilled opening he could see nothing but tangled brush and weeds beyond their prison. They were out in the middle of nowhere, at least from what Sam could see, and there was no one within hearing range of his shouts.

He drew in a deep breath and yelled at the top of his lungs. His voice echoed down into the chamber below. It was followed by the sound of Dean coughing again, but nothing else.

_Don't panic, Sam. Think._

Slowly he backed down the ladder. On the way up he'd noticed another pipe, this one running perpendicular to the one leading up to the surface. If the grate hadn't been disturbed, and the door to the room was sealed, that second pipe had to have been the way the rawhead was going in and out of its hidey. It would have been a tight squeeze, but the creature could have gotten through it.

There was second ladder on the other side of the up-pipe, broken where the secondary pipe entered. It wasn't difficult for Sam to switch sides and climb into the second pipe. He shimmied down it on his knees and elbows. His pace was fast, frantic, and as the pipe began to narrow just slightly, he began feeling claustrophobic. There was nothing but darkness before or behind him and his mind started playing tricks on him. He knew if the rawhead had gotten through the pipe he certainly could, but somehow he became convinced he was going to get stuck. He'd get stuck and condemn both himself and Dean to slow, horrible deaths.

If Dean wasn't dead already.

Sam was on the verge of tears by the time he reached another up-pipe and his fears of becoming stuck were relieved. Everything opened up as if the ceiling had been lifted away above him. Suddenly he found himself surrounded by warmth, and light, and fresh, clean air. Another ladder led up to ground level. It was a short climb, and the man-hole cover, although heavy, was not sealed or rusted shut and opened easily. Sam burst through it and collapsed into the cool, damp grass.

The sky was a dusky shade of blue-gray, turning as the sun kissed the horizon. Sam judged it would be dark before another hour had passed. A chill breeze rifled his hair and he smelled rain. If they had remained trapped underground another night, they wouldn't have made it through to morning. The thought made Sam shudder. It also reminded him that Dean was still in trouble.

He lurched to his feet, looking around frantically in order to get his bearings and realizing he had come out in the park, not far from one of the picnic shelters. Immediately he took off running toward home. His wet sneakers slipped on the wooden bridge and he nearly went down, but grabbing the railing he managed to pull himself forward out of the tailspin. Gravel crunched beneath his feet. He took the steps two by two, and burst out onto the sidewalk directly across from the building that housed the Winchester's rent by-the-week apartment.

Home.

Without thinking, Sam launched himself off the sidewalk and into the street.

Tires squealed. With a cry, Sam twisted his body around to avoid the collision, but even as slowly as the vehicle had been moving, the front bumper still caught him a solid blow to the back of his left leg. He yelled again as his feet left the ground. Arms flailing, he crashed down upon his back, slid across the hood of the car and landed in a heap on the pavement. Dazed, he lay there choking on exhaust fumes, but oddly grateful for the warmth rolling out from beneath the vehicle idling above him.

For a moment he had the morbid conviction that he'd been hit by a hearse. The car was big, and black, and unfashionably long. If it had been going any faster it would have killed him.

A door squeaked. The car dipped slightly as the driver exited.

"Sam? Oh my God, Sammy!"

_Oh. I thought that grill looked familiar._

With a groan Sam pushed himself up off the ground, only to be hauled up the rest of the way by strong hands grasping his shoulders. He was still slightly dazed, but as he blinked and shook his head, his vision cleared.

"Dad..."

John's hands grasped him on either side of the face. "Sam? Are you all right? Sammy..."

Sam shook his head again, clearing the remaining cobwebs. "Dad! Dean..." He didn't get far before his father interrupted him sharply.

"Where the hell have you been? I've been driving around all night..." John's voice was strained, betraying the fear that must have been eating at him for hours. He gave Sam a small shake and the fear gave way to fury. "Dammit, haven't I told you..."

Sam wasn't listening. He had grabbed a handful of his father's coat sleeve and turned back toward the park, dragging John along with him a few steps. "We've got to go! Dean's still down there!"

"Sam..."

"It was a rawhead!" Sam shrieked. "It got me. Dean came, and...and...it drowned but he's hurt and there's no way out and hemaybedeadanditsallmyfault!"

John stopped. His expression hardened. The search for his wayward boys had suddenly turned into something different – a rescue mission. Later Sam would recognize his father's "Hunter Mode" for what it was, but at the moment he just thought he was in trouble, especially when John's grip tightened painfully around his arm.

"Dad, please..."

"Where is it?" John growled. "Show me."

* * *

John's instructions, as he loaded up a backpack from items inside the trunk, were to "stay in the car!"

As cold, battered, and frightened as he was, Sam was tempted to actually obey him. It wasn't until he got a really good look at his father's face and saw some of the stuff John was pulling out of the Impala's warehouse of sharp pointy objects, that his "good boy" resolve wavered. One of the things his father removed from the trunk was a very long, nasty-looking electric cattle prod.

Sam peered anxiously out the window. "Dad," he said quietly.

"Not now, Sam."

"Dad," Sam repeated, ignoring the warning tone. "That...thing. It's dead isn't it. It did drown, right?"

The trunk slammed shut. Cattle prod in hand and backpack slung over his shoulder, John narrowed his eyes and looked out over the park. "Sam. Stay in the car. Keep the windows rolled up and the doors locked." He pulled the keys out of his pocket and handed them to Sam. "If I don't come back, go home and call Jim."

"But..."

John's glare was ominous. "Do. As. I. Say."

"Yes sir."

Sam sat in the car watching as John disappeared into the darkest, most overgrown part of the park. He waited a good five minutes...

Before getting out and following in his father's wake.

John's route through the underbrush wasn't difficult to follow, especially for Sam, who John himself had trained as a tracker. Dean was a good tracker too, but he much preferred the rough and tumble part of their training. Sam liked to keep a slower pace and leaned more toward the skills that needed a little more brainpower. He actually enjoyed tracking. It was challenging, and ultimately, very rewarding.

The challenge here was not to tip his father off that someone was following him. Sam proceeded very carefully, sneaking through the trees and bushes directly along the path John had already broken. It made him less likely to break new branches, make sounds John might hear. He staged a little argument with himself regarding his usefulness as he went. He probably wouldn't be very useful at all, and in fact, could get in the way. His concern won out, however. He had to make sure Dean was okay. Sam couldn't wait until his father came back, he had to know right now.

Right away he determined his father wasn't taking the same way back that Sam had used in his escape. They had entered a different part of the park, one not accessible to the public. The trees and bushes had grown wild, obscuring any footpaths there might have been. Sam passed an old six-foot high chain-length fence covered in vines. Its gate hung open and askew from one hinge. John's route took him through the gate and out into a cracked and crumbling parking lot.

A series of brick buildings, some leaning dangerously, stood in the distance. It was the old water treatment plant Dean had mentioned. It had been out of commission for decades. The park had been encroaching upon it for many years. Grass and weeds cracked the pavement where they'd pushed through over time. Vines climbed brick walls, tearing them down where the mortar had eroded. As far as Sam could see the only occupants of the old buildings were birds. A row of pigeons looked down at him, cocking their little heads sideways and blinking at him with bright, round eyes as he passed through a doorway.

He paused inside. The faint sound of footsteps on metal stairs drifted back toward him. He followed the sound to a door. It opened to reveal the stairs and the more distinct sound of his father descending. Sam carefully made his way down. His sneakers were much quieter than John's heavy boots. He made very little sound. His progress, however, was much slower. The further down Sam went, the darker it became and the more cautious he had to be on the stairs.

At the bottom there was a long corridor stretching out to either side of the staircase. A glance in one direction revealed only darkness. In the other direction Sam could just make out the faint glow of John's flashlight disappearing around a corner. He followed, moving quickly and quietly. There was tile on the floor but in the dark, damp air a thin, slippery layer of mildew had grown upon it. Footsteps were muffled but the going was treacherous.

Sam struggled along the corridor, keeping his eye on the faint glow of his father's flashlight ahead of him, and trying not to catch up too quickly. He hung back, and realized, as he turned a corner into nothing but darkness, that he'd lost his father at another intersection. Standing at a crossroad between several intersecting hallways, Sam couldn't tell which way his father had gone. There was no light. He couldn't even see enough to find any footprints on the filthy floor. Fear grabbed hold of him. For a moment he was completely paralyzed, afraid he was now lost in a maze in which he would never be found.

A loud bang reverberated down the corridor to his right. Quickly, Sam began moving again, following the sound. The floor beneath his feet began to slope downward. It became wetter and more slippery. Another turn was up ahead and from just beyond it Sam could see John's light once again and this time it was not moving. He slowed his pace, intending to simply peek around the corner, but another bang, a shout, and an all too familiar roar distracted him. Instead of stopping at the corner, he went right around to where his father stood.

And froze.

John stood at a doorway, ankle deep in dark water, his gun drawn. It was the doorway into the room where Sam and Dean had encountered the rawhead, but their father had somehow managed to get the rusty door unstuck. John's broad shoulders filled the opening. Beyond him, caught in the beam of his flashlight, was the rawhead.

Its rags were sodden, its face was battered and bloody, signs that it was the same creature Sam thought had been drowned. Obviously it had not drowned at all, and now was facing off against the eldest Winchester. John had it pinned with both his weapon and the light in which it stood blinking and howling. John did not fire. He could not fire. Grasped in one huge "paw," dangling by one arm, and as limp as a rag doll, was the reason why.

Dean.

The rawhead roared, and gave its prize a shake. Sam saw droplets of blood fly from his brother's nose and mouth. He couldn't tell if Dean were alive or dead.

"Dad!"

John flinched, shot Sam the briefest of glances, but kept his attention focused on Dean and the rawhead. "Sam. Get back to the car!"

"Shoot it! Can't you shoot it?"

"Sam! Go!"

The rawhead advanced, holding Dean close to its body like a shield. Although wounded, and burdened with carrying a nearly grown boy, it retained its unnatural speed. Before Sam realized what was happening it had shoved John aside and was rushing through the door toward _him_!

Instinctively he cringed backward, flattening himself against the slimy, mold-caked wall. The rawhead's eyes gleamed in the light of the flashlight it had sent flying from John's hand. Sam's senses were overwhelmed with its smell and its garbled cry. It reached toward his throat with its free hand.

"DAD!"

The roar of a gun silenced the roar of the rawhead. It twisted away from Sam as the slugs punched into the rotting flesh of its back. John came up from behind, his temple bloodied from where he'd been struck, and put two more bullets into the creature. It cried out in pain and fury, but did not attack. Instead it fled, rushing away up the corridor and disappearing into the dark, taking Dean with it.

"Dammit, Sam!" John grabbed Sam by the arm, much as the rawhead had been holding Dean. "I told you to stay in the car!" He gave Sam a shove. "Get back there, now!"

"But...I can help!"

"No!" John snatched the flashlight up from the floor and shoved it into Sam's hands. "If you want to help, go back to the car, and get it as close to the front of the building as you can – but _lock the doors and don't come out!"_

"But Dad..."

"Do as I say, Sam. Do it now, or your brother is dead. Is_ that_ something you can understand?"

If seeing Dean hanging unconscious and bleeding in the rawhead's grasp hadn't convinced him, the look on his father's face did. John was terrified.

Sam nodded, both his ability to speak and the urge to disobey smothered by fear for his brother.

With curse, John turned and raced after the rawhead into the dark.

* * *

Sam barely remembered running back to the car, forcing himself to hurry despite the pain stabbing at him from all parts of his body. He had never driven the car before but wasn't completely ignorant of how it worked. His hands shook as he put the key into the ignition. It took several tries to get it going. He flooded the engine in his first and second attempts. In the third he started it and held the key too long, creating a horrible ratcheting sound that convinced him he'd ruined the engine. Chewing his lip bloody, he finally got the big Chevy in gear.

It lurched forward. Mindful of the need for haste, Sam tromped down on the gas and sent the car careening wildly through the park, narrowly missing a man out for an early morning jog. Tires squealed and horns honked when the Impala roared through the stop sign at the park entrance and back out onto the street. Sam drove around the block once, searching frantically for the entrance to the old sewage plant, before he saw a half-hidden opening in the trees. The old drive had been all but reclaimed by the woods. There was just a narrow track and a rusty chain length fence – both barely visible from the road.

Wrenching the wheel around, Sam sent the Chevy into a wild, skidding turn. Her front end bounced up the short, sloping driveway and punched through the old gate, sending it flying. Sam pushed down on the gas and the car sped through the tangled underbrush up toward the abandoned sewage plant's main building. Sam's heart was racing. His hands were sweating and slick upon the steering wheel. If Dean died it would be all his fault. If both his father and his brother died...

_Don't. God, please don't go there. _

The cracked and crumbling parking lot of the sewage plant appeared at the end of the overgrown drive. Sam made his way toward the front doors and slammed on the brakes. The Impala skidded to a stop. This time, mindful of his father's words, Sam put the car in park and made sure all the doors were locked. He sat there with the engine idling. His mind replayed a million different scenarios in his head as to what might happen. None ended well. What would he do if Dean died? Who would take care of him then? What if the rawhead killed Dean and then turned on their father? Did Sam know enough to survive on his own? How long should he wait before he went for help?

It seemed like hours before a bit of movement caught his eye. A figure appeared behind the front doors, its identity obscured by the filth caking the glass windows. Every muscle tensed as Sam watched the shadowy silhouette moving inside the building's foyer. After a moment he heard a loud "bang" and the doors shuddered. A second bang and they flew open.

John appeared from within, struggling along under the weight of his unconscious son. Sam scrambled out of the car and opened one of the back doors, watching intently as his father lay Dean down in the back seat. He got only a glimpse of a pale, white face before John was shutting the door and barking at Sam to get in the car again. The backpack was gone and so was the cattle prod. John stunk of sewage and the weird, acrid scent of something electronic burning. He reached over and stuffed his gun in the glove box before putting the Impala in gear and gunning her back toward the driveway. Sam sat very quiet and very still in the passenger's seat, terrified to turn around and look in the back seat lest he find a lifeless body lying there.

It took him a while to get up the nerve to ask the question.

"Dad, is...is he dead?"

"No."

Sam didn't say anything more. The coldness of his father's reply warned him against it. Neither of them said a word to each other for the few minutes it took for them to get to the hospital. John pulled up at the emergency room doors and gathered Dean in his arms once again. Sam followed slowly. He stood apart as a group of nurses and doctors hustled his father and brother away into a room. When it became clear John was not coming back and no one was going to tell Sam what was going on, he retreated to a nearby men's room and locked himself into the stall furthest from the door.

Exhausted, frightened, and alone, he put his head in his arms and began to cry. All the stress of the past twenty-four hours had finally taken their toll and he couldn't hold it back any more. Sobbing and shivering, he sat huddled next to the toilet until an orderly happened to enter the bathroom. Sam, pretty much incoherent by this time, was quickly discovered and immediately taken back into the E.R to be treated for shock and hypothermia.

They took his sodden, stinking clothing and exchanged it for a pair of dry scrubs and a cup of hot coffee while he struggled to pull himself back together. They asked him questions, to which he replied with his own questions about Dean. He told them nothing, and nobody told him anything. Frustrated, he finally escaped from their clutches and made his way back to the waiting area, where he found John.

His father looked almost as bad as Sam felt. Sam already felt horrible, and as he noted the expression on John's face, he realized things were going to get worse before they got better. He was about to be taken to task.

"You were out after dark," John said coolly. "All night in fact. You want to explain that?"

"Is Dean going to be okay?"

"I don't know."

The answer was blunt, not reassuring at all. Sam felt his eyes begin to burn again.

"It's my fault," he whispered. "I was late."

"And why were you late?"

Sam sighed. He slumped down into another chair, one across from his father, just out of John's reach. John had never struck either of his boys, but Sam reasoned there were a few times they certainly deserved a good kick in the can, and there was always a first time. This, he thought, might qualify as a first time.

"Sam." John repeated. "Why were you late?"

"I...was...I've been playing soccer. I joined the soccer team. We made it to the finals. The first playoff game was tonight...I scored the winning point." Sam chewed his lip. "I couldn't get away. It was dark by the time I left the locker room..."

"And where was Dean during all this?"

"He was waiting..."

John glared at him. The man could smell a lie a mile away. "The truth, Sam."

"It's not his fault," Sam said hastily. "I'm the one who broke the rules."

"Where was your brother?" John demanded. "Tell me the truth."

Sam looked away. "I...I don't know. He wasn't there."

"So you decided to walk home on your own?" John moved away from his queries regarding Dean's whereabouts, despite the fact he knew Sam wasn't coming clean with all he knew. "Alone. After dark."

"Dean met me half way. He was coming. That's the truth. The rawhead coulda got me at the school just as easy. Dad, please. Is Dean..."

John interrupted him, refusing to tell him anything, at least not until the dressing down was over. "I have rules for you boys," he said quietly. "For this very reason, Sam. You know what's out there, and you risk your life and your brother's for a _game_?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't think..."

"Exactly. You didn't think. We've been over the whole sports issue before. I said no. You disobeyed me. You _lied_ to me..."

Sam's temper suddenly flared. His head came up, his eyes narrowing in anger. "As if you don't lie to me all the time."

"I've never lied to you," John said abruptly.

"Bullshit."

"Sam, watch your mouth..."

"You lied to me, you've _always_ lied to me. You lied to me about everything, Dad. You lied about what you do, why we live like we do..."

"You were too young to understand."

"Dean wasn't. Why am I different?" Sam demanded. "You've always lied about that night, about Mom. That thing...that thing that killed her didn't come after her. It came after me!"

John closed his eyes, inhaling deeply as he tried to control his own hot temper. "That's not..."

"Don't tell me another one!" Sam raged. "You know its true! It's my fault. Everything is my fault. Maybe you shoulda just left me there, let me burn up because then..." Tears welled up in his eyes, rolled down his cheeks as he slumped down into his chair and finished hoarsely. "Dean wouldn't be dying."

With a sigh, John rose and came over to Sam's side of the waiting area, taking a seat beside him. "You want the truth?" he said softly, not totally impervious to tears. "I'll tell you the truth. I don't know why it came. Yes, it could have been after you, but it could just as easily been after something else, someone..." His voice cracked a little, obviously as his thoughts turned to Mary. "Sammy, what happened that night, it isn't your fault. I promise." He was quiet for a moment. Eventually, however, he grew stern again, reminding Sam he was still in trouble. "But that thing is still out there, and as long as it is we will have to live like we do, and you and Dean _will_ follow my rules. Do you understand?"

Sam bowed his head, too weary to go on, and understanding that his father _was_, for once, telling him the honest, painful truth. It was only a small comfort, and brief. He acquiesced with reservations, still angry, still feeling suppressed and imprisoned by John's "protections" despite all that had happened.

"Yes sir," he murmured, but wondered if he could ever truly understand. What was wrong with him? Why did he always have to feel this way? He knew his father only had his best interest at heart, why couldn't he just accept it?

"I'm going to take you home." John said. "I called Jim, he'll be there to stay with you."

His usual protest about being too old for a babysitter, fell from Sam's lips. "Where will you be?" he asked instead.

"Here." John stood up. "Your brother's banged up pretty bad. I should be here."

Sam did not like the unspoken " just in case" punctuating his father's statement. He looked up quickly. "I want to stay."

"No."

"But..."

"Sam."

John's eyes were hard, cold, and Sam decided not to press his luck any further. Common sense reined in his temper.

"Yes sir," he whispered.

But inside the fire still burned.

* * *

Sam was standing outside Dean's hospital room. Not a full day had passed since Dean regained consciousness and already their father was laying into him. Only John's voice could be heard through the door, Dean's being much too weak to carry, but Sam could guess what had been said. Dean had taken the rap, all of it, drawing their father's ire away from Sam onto himself. The confession made John livid. Every word he uttered in rebuke made Sam flinch. To Dean it must have been like being verbally beaten, on top of the physical beating the rawhead had inflicted on him. John was merciless.

"_Do you realize what could have happened? Do you have any sense at all, Dean?"_

"_I've busted my ass to keep you boys safe, to teach you how to keep __**yourselves**__ safe. You know better than this, dammit! I swear to God...what were you thinking?"_

"_You have one responsibility, Dean, and that is to take care of Sammy. That is what you do. It's your first priority. I don't care what crazy scheme he cooks up, you're the oldest and it's your job watch out for him! You're not supposed to cover for him when he does something stupid, and you're damn sure not supposed to be off fooling around with some girl while he's out alone after sundown!" _

"_You don't know how lucky you are, Dean. A stunt like this - you both could have been killed. There's a good reason why I make these rules and you know it! Don't you __**ever**__ disobey me again, Dean, especially when it comes to your brother! Do you understand me? Do you?"  
_

Sam plastered himself against the wall when John eventually came storming out of the room. If his father saw him, there was no acknowledgment of his presence. After the chewing out Dean had received, and the one Sam had gotten the day before, he wasn't sure he _wanted_ to be acknowledged. He glanced down the hall where Pastor Jim stood. John had met him there. Jim had given him a cup of coffee and they were talking quietly. Sam took the opportunity to slip into his brother's room.

Dean looked battered, pale, and sickly. He sported bandages from shoulders to waist and his left arm, the one the rawhead had held him by, was in a sling. The arm had been dislocated, and several ribs were broken, but the most life threatening of Dean's injuries had been a punctured lung. He still had a drainage tube stuck into his chest and his voice was barely a whisper. He'd very nearly drowned in his own blood.

"Hey, Sammy."

"You didn't have to do that," Sam said without preamble.

"Do what?"

"Take all of his crap." Anger flared, Sam's fists clenched. "He shouldn't have targeted you."

Dean started to shrug, and winced when he couldn't. "I deserved it."

"No. You didn't. I'm the one who broke the rules."

"I'm the one who let you."

"You don't own me, Dean, and you can't stop me from doing stuff. I'm not a little kid anymore."

"Coulda fooled me."

"Dammit, Dean. You and Dad are gonna have to let me grow up sometime!"

Dean's response to this was nearly inaudible and full of remorse. "I know," he said softly. "But not yet, Sammy." He paused, and added something Sam wasn't sure he was supposed to hear. "Can't you just be a kid a for while longer?"

Sam fidgeted uncomfortably and scuffed the toe of his shoe on the linoleum, making it squeak. As quickly as it had come, his anger fled. "Dad still treats me like I'm five."

"That's because he's your Dad." Dean smiled wryly. "You really did do good out there, Sam. You kept your cool better than I thought you would. You saved my life."

"Dad saved your life," Sam snorted.

"But you climbed out of there, and you got help, and if you hadn't followed Dad things could have gotten real bad. He couldn't electrocute the thing in all that water. When you showed up, and it ran off, it went where everything was dry, and Dad could get it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Sam shifted his weight uneasily. "You know I don't want to be a Hunter, Dean," he whispered. "I want to go to school, college even, and be something else like normal people."

Slowly, Dean shook his head. "Dad'll never let you go off to college, Sammy."

"I know," Sam said miserably. He bit his lip and stared out the window, fighting to keep the girly tears at bay. When he recovered he turned to his brother and handed him the paper bag he'd brought. "Speaking of kid stuff, here, I brought this. They said you have to stay another night and I thought you might want some company."

Dean peered into the bag, and rolling his eyes, withdrew the stained, dog-eared, obviously well-loved, Buddy. All of the boys' childhood possessions had been lost in the fire. Dean's tiger survived because it had been left in the car earlier that day and never made it back into the house. It was the one thing, besides Sam, he took away with him when they left Lawrence.

"Oh, for Pete's sake, Sam..." Dean said gruffly, but he put the bag aside, and tucked the toy out of sight inside his sling. If it were possible, he looked even more sickly than before when he looked up again, but sheepish and grateful too. "Thanks."

"Sure. And I promise I won't tell Elizabeth." Sam moved over to sit in a chair beside the door. There was a television remote on the windowsill. "You wanna watch some TV?"

"Nah. You can. I think I'm gonna sleep some more."

"You want me to leave?"

"No. Stay with me."

"Okay. I'll be real quiet. Promise."

"'kay," Dean murmured. His eyes closed, and just moments later he fell back to sleep.

Sam didn't turn on the television. Instead he pulled the chair up to the side of Dean's bed and sat there for the next several hours, watching over his brother as Dean had so often watched over him.

* * *

Marshall Hall.

The man had died of heart failure, at precisely the same time Dean had been healed by Reverend LeGrange. A life for a life. One man died so another, Dean, could live.

Sam stared at the name on his computer screen, reading it over and over again.

_Oh, my God. What have I done?_

It was true that the guy might have died anyway, but it made things no easier. To know the girl Layla could have been the one to benefit from Marshall's death instead of Dean, threw salt in already raw wounds. Maybe it was better Sam hadn't known how LeGrange's "miracles" worked until after the fact. He knew what his choice would have been - the final result would have been the same - but it would have put Sam through hell to have to make that decision - and Dean would have hated him for it.

In the end, Sam wondered exactly _why _he felt sorry. Was he really sorry Marshall Hall died, that Layla would too? Was he sorry Reverend LeGrange lost his wife, or that Sue Ann wandered down such a dark path in the first place?

Or was he sorry his brother had been deprived of the death he had seemed so willing to accept?

Sam wasn't stupid, nor blind. Dean had been frightened, scared of dying like anyone would be, but there had been something else there too. Sam had seen it in Dean's eyes that first day in the hospital. It had been _relief_, profound relief. Dean had gotten a glimpse of light at the end of the long, dark tunnel he'd been traveling through since the age of four. Sam didn't have to be a mind reader to know what he'd been thinking.

_It's over. I don't have to do this anymore._

This realization had left Sam unnerved. Overnight the burden of guilt he carried increased ten-fold. No matter what anyone told him, or how much they insisted otherwise, Sam knew – he _knew_ – the demon that killed their mother had come for _him_ that night. Dean's warped and wounded psyche was his fault, and would _always _be his fault.

When they left Nebraska, Dean was once again behind the Chevy's wheel, but the radio was off and the mood somber. Sam studied, or tried to study, the map he had spread out across his knees. Eventually, however, the silence started to get to him.

"I guess you were right," he said abruptly. "There was something fishy going on there."

Dean made a noncommittal sound, hardly more than a grunt. Sam waited a moment, but the grunt was all he was going to get.

"You're a good Hunter, Dean," he said. "Real good. Maybe better than Dad."

At this, Dean shot him a quick glance. "I doubt that."

"It's true," Sam replied softly, and added: "It's a good thing, what we do. We saved those kids from the rawhead. We saved everyone who might have otherwise died because of SueAnn."

Dean's acknowledgment was slightly reluctant. He was thinking, Sam knew, of the ones they hadn't saved. "Yeah..."

"Just...just don't lose sight of that, okay?"

Again, Dean gave him a funny look. "What?"

"I'm just trying to say...you're worth it too, you know?" Sam quickly looked away, staring at the map. "Saving. You're worth it," he repeated softly.

"Oh. Kay, sure." Dean shrugged and began toying with the radio, seeking a station within a sea of static. "Whatever you say, Sammy." He frowned at the radio dial. "Where the hell are we, the frikken moon?"

It was subterfuge, Sam realized. They'd gone too deep, into emotional territory Dean couldn't or wouldn't share. He'd already reached his emotional limits for the day – hell, for the _week_. He was shutting down, putting the walls back up, and Sam knew better than to push him any further.

He was curious about one thing though.

"Dean?"

"Uh-huh?" Dean's tongue poked out between his lips as he concentrated on both his driving and tuning in an elusive bit of music he'd finally found in the FM wilderness. "What?"

"Do you still have Buddy?"

There was a slight pause. "Who?"

"That old stuffed tiger you had when you were a kid."

"What? No. Don't be stupid." With an annoyed growl, Dean shut off the radio and groped for his box of tapes. "Why are you bringing that up?"

"No reason. I just remembered it is all." Sam handed over the box of cassettes – quickly – before his brother swerved off the road in his efforts to reach across and under the front the seat.

"Oh."

Sam waited a beat and then said, "You do, don't you?"

"No! Dude, I'm almost thirty years old!"

"Uh-huh." Sam said, casually refolding the map. "It's in the trunk somewhere isn't it?"

In response, Dean quickly shoved a Deep Purple tape into the player and cranked up the volume. "What?" he shouted, pointing to his ear. "Sorry, Sammy, I can't hear you! The music's too loud!" He laughed then, genuinely pleased with himself.

Sam just shook his head and settled in for the long drive, Dean's off-key chortling, for once, music to his ears.


End file.
